


Sacred and Profane Love

by amoralagent



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Library, Dark Hannibal, Dark Will, Disappearance, Domestic Fluff, Drunk Hannibal, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hannibal Loves Dogs, Hannibal Loves Will, Hannibal is a Cannibal, Hannigram - Freeform, Jealous Will, Kinda, M/M, Murder, Murder Husbands, Murder in the Library, Pining, Possessive Hannibal, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Sad Will, Sassy Will Graham, Symbolism, Will Graham's Dogs - Freeform, Will Loves Hannibal, and my own dog in there, eventually, ish, library!au, the metaphors are strong with this one, which was the best decision of my life by the way, who doesn't love drunk Hannibal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2018-12-15 13:28:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11806923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amoralagent/pseuds/amoralagent
Summary: Hannibal is gone. He won't answer his phone, the car's nowhere to be found, he didn't leave a note, or take anything. Even the dogs don't know where he's gone. Will, overcome with worry and confusion, tries to chill with his pack of strays for the day, to no avail. He suspects Hannibal is up to no good. He'd be right in suspecting that.Basically, loads of wonderful dogs and domestic bliss that goes to murder and filth.(Abandoned)





	1. Our Lives Are Written in Disappearing Ink

**Author's Note:**

> Frank is my pug and if you did not know, now you know.

A wet tongue woke Will up, but not in the way he'd want. Garmr- named rather ironically considering he was the complete opposite from a guardian of Hell and more of a big three-legged, drooling, baby- decided Will's time would be better spent awake and promptly lathered his face in bouts of meat-smelling dribble. Will didn't exactly scream, but the noises he made were far from courageous.

With a groan, then laughing, he managed to shove and shut the jaws of the beast clambering and wriggling around on top of him. Schooling him with a sharp noise when he tried it again, Will wiped his face on the sheets, the clumsy Rottweiler whimpering and lying down on his legs in the wake of the chaos he'd created. The bedsheets were ruined, and very damp, and stunk of dog breath. Hannibal would hate it. _Wait, where is Hannibal?_

The sheets he covered in canine saliva were cold to the touch.

He ruffled Garmr's ears, his bulky head butting into his hand to sniff, gracelessly diving after him when Will shuffled out of bed in search for his husband. Poor excuse for a guard dog trotting at his heels all the way down the stairs, Will discovered the rest of the pack already fed and slumbering in their beds. Or on the couch- where they _know_ they shouldn't be- instantly waking and hopping down in submission as the kinder of their masters walked in, some perking up and padding up to him in greeting: "Hannibal?" _He'd fed the dogs_ \- he never did that. That was Will's job.

The house was horrifically quiet. Spare the tapping of claws on hardwood and snoring: absolute silence. That scared Will even more.

 _Maybe he'd gone for a run? It looks like rain out, surely not. Or a swim? Why the fuck would he go for a swim; the last time he swam anywhere it was after he'd been knocked off a cliff_ , "Hannibal!" He absentmindedly scratched the head of the white shepherd dog who the missing man discovered in a wheelie bin, christened her Encephalitis, and bought home wrapped in his expensive fur-lined coat. She nibbled at his fingers as he didn't listen to her whines for attention that joined Garmr's own, tail wagging furiously. _Well, actually, if it wasn't for his swimming skills they both would've drowned. Better safe than sorry, huh?_

"Hannibal?" He asked no one, apart from the dogs, who either gave him a puzzled look or grumbled and rolled over to go back to sleep, "Where'd he go, guys?" His only reply was a yawn, a merge of whines from the dogs pawing at him, and a few quieted sounds of annoyance.

It was late morning by now, almost midday, Hannibal hadn't left him before without either a pre-prepared breakfast, a letter, or a corpse left in their lounge that one time. _Had something happened? Something bad?_

Even in his musings the dogs vouched for his immediate attention, practically barking at him for it: "Okay, _okay_ , that's enough," Grabbing a handful of small treats from the cupboard in the kitchen, he flicked them to each dog in turn like he did every morning, mostly in secret, some catching on and bounding to find theirs, the laziest staying put. Frank, an _extremely_ anxious pug, a far cry from the badass _Men In Black_ star he was jokingly named after, sneezed directly on his foot in demand for another. Will couldn't help but oblige.

Will understood that he shouldn't worry about a cannibalistic serial killer's whereabouts, but there he stood: _worrying_. If something had happened the dogs would be more anxious. _He'll come back, hopefully soon. Maybe_. Ah, fuck it, at least if he didn't Will wouldn't have to ban the dogs from the Italian leather sofa and a zillion thread-count bed covers.

Who was he kidding: if Hannibal didn't come back Will would _freak_. Plus, probably die, from starvation after forgetting to eat or some shit, his every need no longer catered for. Oh _no_. However will he cope? Woe is him.

After fixing himself a breakfast of buttered half-burnt toast and a simple black coffee that Hannibal would've frowned upon, he kicked back on the couch to read for a couple of hours. The skies turned overcast, wind picking up to rattle at the window frames. Tree branches tapped at the glass, some of the dogs barking for time before Will hissed at them, the only noises in the building the creak of wood and water when the dogs went to drink. A weird, slimy feeling of nostalgia washed over him, suddenly feeling like he was back in Wolf Trap, leaving in a shiver as quickly as it came.

Then he starting worrying. Again.

Snoring pug nestled in his armpit, Rottweiler's heavy form crushing his lower half, and the rest of the pack equally relaxed, he sighed, pining. Will had tried to call Hannibal at least seven times, and each time it went to voicemail. The car was gone too. Honestly, he would've gone fishing, or ran to the store, or fixed an appliance, or have done _something_ productive- mainly to get his mind off his anxiety- but the nervousness awaiting Hannibal's return stopped him doing _anything_. It seemed the dogs picked up on it too, often coming to check on him, the most sensitive, attached creatures curling up as close to him as possible and around the couch itself. That made him smile really, especially the urgency of how the brutish animal who'd woken him up hunkered down on top of him like some kind of living safety blanket.

_Where the fuck is Hannibal Lecter?_

Will figured he'd dozed off, jolted back awake when Frank sprung himself off of his chest, groan turning into a chuckle when he found the majority of his strays stirred and looming around him in anticipation. He nudged a snoozing Garmr off of him, getting up unsteadily and rubbing a hand across the back of his neck, seized up and sore. A click of the latch and a pull then the seemingly mismatched family of dogs charged outside like spilled marbles, all chasing each other and scenting trails of mystery wildlife in the grass. Will watched as Garmr ran after the smaller dogs, the half-deaf, gentle miniature schnauzer, Artemis, and Ripley, a stubborn terrier of some kind. He was haphazard but amazingly sturdy without one of his back legs, only occasionally tripping. A whole new animal from the limp, bloody mound they'd rescued from a roadside, either hit by a car or hit with-- something. In excitement, he tripped and fell with a thump, only to roll in the fall and find himself on his feet to make chase again. That made Will laugh a bit too loud.

Of course, Frank stayed close by his side, ears pricking up and forehead wrinkling at any strange noise that wasn't wind or his playmates. Skittish. His breathing was laboured, sometimes actually holding his breath to hear. Will could only comfort him temporarily with generous strokes and emotional support; he was far more attached to Hannibal, making for a tough contest as to whom was more anxious about his disappearance. The jury's out on that one.

"You know he comes back, bud," Will told him, leaning into the door frame with yet another coffee, watching the loaf-shaped dog glancing around with wide, sad eyes: "Believe me, he wouldn't leave _me_ , let alone _you_." Hannibal had denied it, refuted it even, but he'd bonded perfectly with the fawn-coloured, flat-faced ball of stress. At first, his only excuse for not liking him was his name's link to his old and unbelievably desperate patient, but Will had seen past that, catching him feeding him slithers of cooked lung or liver, often reprimanding him for it. _They're trusting by nature, Hannibal, you can't feed them the same meat their dads are made from. What do you mean "they need training"? For the last time: we aren't doing that! Dogs aren't their primal ancestors anymore-- it's just wrong!_

Frank never left his side. Sometimes the little soul would howl whenever Hannibal left, a strange buzzing kind of noise considering his lack of snout, and all Will would do is record it until his heart couldn't take it anymore. He'd later show Hannibal the poor thing's wailing, who'd obviously show no upfront, upset reaction to it, but Will would notice afterwards that he'd hold him a little tighter. Will knew he was indisputably right about their inseparability when he came into Hannibal's study one morning to find the snorting pup creating a wet patch of drool- _drool!_ \- and shed handfuls of fur onto his fanciest suit trousers, Hannibal having let him lie across his lap as he worked at his desk. Seeing that, he melted. Will put it down to a pug being the greediest and most reliant of any breed he'd come across- a perfect match to the sateless and controlling man that is Hannibal Lecter. He'd go as far to say they were both just as pretentious too.

Will had wanted to wait to see if Hannibal would return before getting lunch, but as the clock read half three he shrugged to himself and reheated leftover _Blanquette de Veterinarian Parasitologist_ , in the microwave he's forbidden from using, like the sinner he is. Cephy apparently smelt what Will had to offer and came flying back in the house, then sat down at his feet, inquisitive. Will suspected that Hannibal had given her some of the grizzle of the meat when he wasn't looking- she never normally begged like this. It would also explain the distracting kisses Hannibal gave him. He narrowed his eyes at her and shoved a spoonful in his mouth.

It was becoming ridiculous how much Will missed Hannibal after less than a day apart. In truth, it would've been just fine if the man had managed to leave a note, or shoot a text, or do anything to indicate his current location, or, y'know, proof of life. If he was alive, he was definitely doing something Will wouldn't approve of. And he was in _big_ trouble for it. Like, _no sex for a week_ kind of trouble. Uh-huh.

Eventually, the small group of companions came back inside one-by-one, having completed their business and probably ruined the flowerbeds in the process. Will didn't mind- he'd leave any mess caused for Hannibal to clean up; fair, considering his abandoned, discombobulated state. Thanks to him. _All day_.

Before he knew it, early evening was settling outside like an unwelcome guest yet to enter into the home. He didn't turn the lights on to battle the vanishing light and oncoming darkness, only huddled upstairs in his own version of a study he aptly named the _fuck-off room,_ fit with a laptop, the spare bed, and his record player with all his vinyls, intently listening out for the door to possibly open or the car to pull up or the dogs to start barking. None of those sounds happened.

He busied himself with looking up news articles and fell into a hole about transcendentalism, until he got bored, which then turned into hoards of online quizzes. Once he'd figured out he was 73% psychopath ( _only 73%?_ ), INFP/J personality type, because he took the test three times and it couldn't decide, and which Game of Thrones lady he would've been based on a perfume- _Melisandre of Assahi apparently, yeah, right_ \- his phone rang. He answered it almost immediately.

"Hannibal?" He heard of cough which soothed into a breathy laugh, "Are you okay? Where have you been?" There was an answer there but he didn't get it at all because of the faltering, blubbering, weirdness of his speech that sounded like someone was talking over him. Or was it the line? Wait--

"Hannibal, are you _drunk?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Frank is my pug and if you did not know, now you know.


	2. You Don't Need Water to Feel Like You're Drowning, Do You?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's Hannibal up to???????? All will become clear, in time.

"You're not supposed to be in here, sir. Unless you're in direct association with the library. Are you a donor, sir?" Hannibal ignored the staff member's irritating warnings in an uncharacteristic yet admirable move, opening the various desk drawers as he sat in the chair like the private office was his: _"Sir--"_

"I believe I heard you the first time." He blanks, meeting the exasperated expression of the persistent teenager's with pristine nonchalance, "If you don't mind, I'd like to continue with my work."

"This isn't your--"

"How much do they pay you for pestering, um, Thomas?" He asked, conversationally, standing and rounding to the front of the desk whilst fiddling his wallet. The young man scowled in hopeful confusion, Hannibal's formidable presence suddenly discomforting him when he moves closer, eyes shockingly emotionless.

"Erm..."

"That doesn't answer my question, Thomas."

"I- er- get ten bucks an hour, but I--" Hannibal held out a hundred dollars between two fingers like it's small change. The student glared untrusting, hesitates, then slowly takes the money from him, fingers brushing a gloved one as he does.

Hannibal pocketed his wallet and made his way back over to the desk, "Please don't bother me again." Thomas made to leave, when: " _Oh_ , and don't mention our meeting to others- disturbing my work is inexplicably rude." He nodded sheepishly, clicking the door shut behind him with a shaky hand. Hannibal sat back down and flicked the head of a nodding dog ornament on the desktop.

 _Okay, yes,_ his little impromptu vanishing act might have been a tad impulsive, but, _Hell_ , he put it off for _months_. Let the man live.

Back when the leaves were shades of fire and gold, weather dreary but as charming as Hannibal liked- his wardrobe suited best to colder conditions- he and Will had decided to visit a library. Well, _no, not really_ , it was more of one of those things where Hannibal near enough dragged Will along, similarly done with the opera and art exhibitions (but Will secretly enjoyed them- and got payback by being allowed to take his persnickety husband fishing in the dirtiest rivers and long dog walks in the rain, unable to complain, given each other's company). They chose one a town or two over, far enough to distance themselves from anything suspicious that might've occurred- _not that Hannibal was planning anything. Definitely not._ Will was easily swayed, with, of course, the promise of a cosy day nestled in the best of literary arts and Hannibal's safe and warming presence. That, and a blowjob at some point afterwards. Or during, if he was lucky. Then again, that was more implied than explicit, like just about everything Hannibal comes up with. Far more poetry in his words. Anyway--

That's besides the point: the point is, that the library staff, a couple of them in particular that are seared into his memory, were disgustingly impolite in their service. A young man, named _Rick_ , or _Rory_ , or _something beginning with R_ , was very unapologetic and obvious in his repulsion towards the two men. Hannibal had been deeply offended by it- it seemed holding Will's hand was enough to have the guy staring in surprisingly brazen disapproval, muttering offhand comments that in themselves would've been enough to lose at least a liver. Will picked up on it too, only playing up their relationship to unsettle the employee further, gripping Hannibal's hand tighter and kissing him in displays of equal brazenness.

"He's just a dumb kid," Will had told him in whispers, Hannibal giving the oblivious so-called kid a look as dark as coal from between the bookcases: "Don't get so worked up about it."

"I'm surprised you feel so indifferent towards it; you certainly didn't have this attitude when you amputated a man's arms for similar phraseology." Hannibal pointed out, resulting in the classic death-glare meant only for him.

 _"That_ was different. He should've known better." Will growled, flicking through a Jungian textbook, "All those _fucking_ heckles." He added, pushing the book back on the shelf with a thud.

"We could allow him the same fate." Hannibal suggested, turning away from the unbearable man and offering Will a pleading look. Will rolled his eyes.

"He's nineteen years old, Hannibal, cut the guy some slack. This job has got to be tedious. We're probably the highlight of his day." Will smirked, walking over to another shelving unit and Hannibal followed him placid as the current.

"It doesn't excuse intolerance." He assured, straightening his shoulders, "You said so yourself after--"

"I was easily offended back then because of--"

"He was still awake when you did it, Will."

 _"He put his hands on you!"_ He hissed, too loud, earning a disembodied shushing from someone in the vicinity. Will took a deep breath, raising a hand to cup Hannibal's face, look softening when their eyes met: "Just don't hurt him. I don't want to worry about it-- don't _do_ anything. _For me? Please?"_ Hannibal sighed himself, and nodded.

Too bad Will hadn't made him promise, because he wouldn't have went there again if he had.

Whilst he worked at hand-sewing and adeptly cutting the material laid out on the desk in front of him, Hannibal wondered if Will had kissed him so much that day to piss off the bigoted people in the room, or had solely done it in repeated attempts to absolve Hannibal's growing anger, in light of situation. He couldn't distinguish it. Perhaps both.

Thinking of Will, he hadn't liked leaving him, lying there in the dark in the middle of the night- scuttling away like an unfaithful lover. Technically, even though it wasn't emotional unfaithfulness, murder and plotting still counted. That didn't make him feel bad: it was for the greater good. _His_ greater good.

Still, having to slip away like that wasn't something he'd want to do again; Will's sleeping form an oil painting made real. Sensual and inviting, so warm too. He'd counted it lucky that Will had taken sleeping pills on his recommendation- he wouldn't have slept through Hannibal unraveling himself from his vicelike grip- getting out of bed was a struggle in itself. Will only stretched, pushed his head into the pillow with a soft noise, and gripped the sheets in loss of contact. His laboured breaths in syncopation with Hannibal's now heavier heart.

Dogs are easily won over with food, enrapt and instinctively gratuitous for anything given, something Hannibal played upon in people too. _Wink wink._

Before coming to the library in the early morning, limned by moonlight and hours away from the impending sun, Hannibal drove round to the back of a small house an hour or so out, cropped by fir trees and free of neighbours. There, he donned his gloves, entered through a window he took the courtesy to remove himself, almost soundlessly- like he'd done it before- snuck up the stairs, and smothered a man he'd never met with a feather pillow.

A coughing, whispered voicemail message was left to the man's place of work to inform them of his future absence, apologising profusely. Hannibal placed the body in the large basement freezer, and locked it.

Quietly and without issue he'd managed to busy himself with all the cutting and sewing he'd set about doing, different silks draped over the desk and neatly assembled, rumpling and measuring it with natural, surgical precision. Operatic symphonies echoing in the churches of his mind, bathed in dimmed sunlight and singing choir voices. Hours worth of graft and concentration were the farthest away from new as you can get- Hannibal lived and breathed in times like this, all steely gaze and defy fingers, eloquent and gentle.

Images of flocking collared doves, Will's bare chest forming ribs as he slept, and salted breath of the roaring ocean blanketed his thoughts, keeping him inhumanly calm, bleeding dry the memories of the hours earlier so they didn't pose distraction from his work.

In the middle of the teenager purely trying to do his job, as much as he'd annoyed him, Hannibal had found a leather and stainless steel hip flask in the top drawer of the desk, engraved, that faintly smelt of a liquor he'd scented on Will long ago. He'd tasted it too, lips ripe and tongue unkindly bitter with the taste of too-cheap alcohol. Hannibal actually enjoyed it; Drunken Will had seen to that.

Folding the soft fabric he'd been sorting out and placing it delicately into the briefcase he'd bought with him, he then took the flask from it's place underneath a wad of opened letters and in front of the stale cigarettes pushed to the back. He read the engraving again, beautiful in craftsmanship, unscrewing it before taking a swig and swirling around his mouth, gargling then swallowing. Grimacing only slightly at the flavour, completely unfazed by the strength or pungency of the drink, he closed a finger around the rim of the flask and upturned to let a few drops land on his gloved fingertips, raising his hand to touch his either side of the column of his throat. One more appreciative glance at the little bottle, and he pocketed it. _It could come into use as a peace offering._

As the library open hours were wordlessly sneaking past, shifts changing, sun floating, Hannibal sat patiently behind the desk. Waiting. He dropped his head onto the back of the chair, slumping, perfectly timed: the doorknob clicked and twisted open. First there was a hum, the unconscious sort, a smack of folders onto a bookshelf by the door, then a half-yelp in a gasp: "Who-- _who_ are you?" The stutter implied the refrain from obscenity. She sounded scared, as anyone would. Hannibal lazily opened his eyes, "Um- hey?- _hello?"_ The feisty girl, Hannibal thought to be in her early-twenties, slowly waved a hand at him, uncertain of approaching, looking at him like a question: "Why are you in here, man? The library is closing in, like, ten minutes."

_What do drunk people normally do?_

Hannibal cleared his throat suddenly and her whole body flinched. There was a weird moment of both of them just blinking at each other, looking like they were about to speak, until Hannibal fell out of his chair.

The crash of his impact with the floor had clearly alerted other members of staff, another two employees rushing up the stairs and asking flustered, loud questions to the girl he'd met previously. Hannibal just coughed a little more, adding a groan and a clutch of his head for good measure, even managing to dribble onto the carpet as he stumbled to his feet. Hannibal: dribbling. He picked up his briefcase and clutched it tightly to his chest like at any moment they'd snatch it away forever, his life dependent.

Arms quickly found his, all three of the helpers entirely bewildered and cautious, still trying to ask him questions he refused to answer entirely, being too focused on his very convincing acting. He pushed their pestering hands away with a grumble, only for them to get impatient. They all began squabbling insults and solutions amongst themselves as Hannibal swayed as he walked out the room. He smelt of alcohol, that much they understood: _"Who the fuck gets drunk at a library?"_ One of them exclaiming, letting go of him as he got to the door and shoved his way out, murmuring incoherently in an array of different tongues to them for the full effect. That weirded them out even further.

"You need to leave the premises, sir, or I'll be forced to call the authorities." A rather brave young boy with an R in his name insisted, trailing behind Hannibal as he moved in the opposite direction to the stairs. Hannibal laughed at him, throwing a grin over his shoulder at him, all canines and lopsided, leaning against the wall.

"You wouldn't do that." Hannibal scoffed, earning another warning, all of them reluctantly following him: _"You'll never take me alive!"_ He chided, almost falling over his own feet.

The library assistants were hounding him like limping fawn bleeding through undergrowth. Just as he saw the sign for the staff bathrooms, a promise of sanctuary, a bearded man poked his head out of an office to the right of him, stared, then quickly caught himself up in the commotion.

"What's going on here? Who are you?" Hannibal just looked at him with a very deep, pouty scowl as if he wasn't making a lick of sense. The small group of assistants and technicians filled in for him, arguing about calling the cops, confused and panicky.

Who can blame them when a grown-up (very grown; middle aged) scary-looking inebriated man in a damned three-piece suit, who screamed _approach at your own risk_ , was now wandering around the place on his own accord and cursing at them in a multitude of foreign languages like a fucking demon? And apparently he was offended by _their_ presence? _Unbelievable_.

Hannibal felt quite like a child being ganged up on and they'd told the teacher on him. It turned out the man in his thirties was working overtime, being a _facilities management consultant_ , which he had told Hannibal in a childlike patronising tone, sounding out his words. Hannibal found it all rather amusing: "Please exit the building and be on your way, and all will be forgotten, Mr...?"

Hannibal frowned, "Mister-- _Priapus_." He giggled. He fucking _giggled_. The man just pursed his lips and looked him up and down. _A_ _smug_ _motherfucker_.

When being spoken at by this unhappy man he licked his teeth and looked away, seemingly unable to concentrate at all on speech: "Do you have someone we can call? Someone who can pick you up?" Hannibal pretended to think about it like he was consulting an arduous mental list before shrugging, blinking sleepily and smiling in a daze. One of the onlookers muffled a laugh.

The man raised his hand to guide Hannibal so he politely declined the help, muttering a, "Yes, I understand, I'm just--" Then he did it again so he pushed his touch away: "I just need to use your-- your bathroom."

When he did it the third time Hannibal ended up slamming him into the opposite wall. And everything stopped.

He quickly replaced the inner snarl with a coquettish grin, not helping the looks of fear and shock that he'd unveiled, releasing his hold on the man's chest and diverting attention by walking unsteadily over to the bathroom, somewhat faster this time. Before anyone could catch on quick enough to stop him, he'd locked himself in.

Immediately straightening up, readjusting his loose tie and shirt buttons, he walked over to the sinks and put down his briefcase, reaching for his phone: _"Hannibal?"_ Will sounded hearteningly relieved, _"Are you okay? Where have you been?"_ He chuckled down the phone, the staff outside loud and angry, courage found behind the wooden door: _"Hannibal, are you drunk?"_

Hannibal hummed, "I could be." He purred, "Are you trying to take _advantage_ of me, Will?"

 _"What the fuck, Hannibal?"_ He groaned, _"Where are you?"_

Hannibal checked all the stalls: empty, "In... a _bathroom_." He seemed pleasant surprised, mockingly impressed, and Will sighed.

_"What building are you in? Your exact location, please. Is there someone there with you?"_

"Would you be jealous if there was?" Hannibal took off his coat and dropped it to the floor in a sad heap, "Would you _kill_ the person I was with?" He spoke lowly, the phone between his cheek and shoulder as he fixed the cuffs of his silk shirt.

 _"I'll kill you if you don't fucking--"_ Another tired sigh, _"I don't have time for this. Just tell me where the fuck you are."_

Hannibal waited a good minute before deciding on it: "I'm at the library. Come and get me." And hung up.

Will stood in disbelief for a few seconds, equally confused by the situation as everyone involved but Hannibal, then shook his head, and called a cab.


	3. As Close as You Can Come to The Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sozzer this took so long to do, I'm just awful. Will is very close to picking a fight and Hannibal is smug and dastardly. What's he even been doing? (Murder plans!) Is Will going to like it? (No!) Is Will going to kill him? (Probably!)

"Hello?" Will wandered in the big double doors, half of the lights already switched off to leave a sickly yellow glow: "Anybody here?" The place smelt of dust and old wood. During the drive there, he'd flitted between anger and an odd sense of relief. It was surprising he could even remember the name of the library, really. The cab driver did little to help his mood, with all the phatic conversation he kept trying to have. But the slow shift to dusk and winding roads had left him weary, evolving his attitude to being _entirely_ fucked off.

Not even divine intervention could save Hannibal now.

There was a small hubbub of knocking and argument somewhere upstairs and he carefully went over, calling out, getting up two steps before a dark-haired girl barrelled down the next flight and appeared in front of him. She spoke to him with words falling over each other, "Who are you?"

"I'm here about the guy in the bathroom?" Will offered, scratching the back of his aching neck.

"And you are...?"

"I'm his husband." Will admitted, huffing, waving a hand to show his ring, resenting it somehow.

"Oh, thank _God_ ," Without warning she grabbed his hand and pulled him up the stairs with her, not letting him go as she dragged him all the way to where a tired young man was waiting outside the bathroom door, leaning up against the wall and scrubbing hands down his face. That bad, huh. Any other members of staff were let off for the rest of the night. The girl released Will's hand and he took it back like she'd wounded him, readjusting his sleeve in a resentful gesture. If he wasn't so goddamn tired he might've offended her.

"Who're you?" This felt like déjà vu.

 _Your fairy fucking godmother_. "His husband. Did he say why he was here?"

Neither of them looked certain, "No, we just found him in one of the private offices." The girl offered, shrugging.

"Okay, erm--" Will pinched the bridge of his nose briefly to stop being so tense, sighing, wanting to wrap his brain around all of this but finding himself turning curt and deliberately dismissive, trying to find polite ways of saying things in spite of his mood, "Do either of you know how much he's had?" They looked lost on that, "Where'd he get the alcohol from?" Nothing but uncomfortable and anxious glances all round. Before waiting for a clear response, Will huffed and knocked on the door twice, heavy-handed. No response, "Come out of there before I bash down this fucking door." _And your head in._

A click of the latch served as the only inclination that he'd been heard, Hannibal secretly smiling at the authoritative tone just out of view. He knew he would've heard a warning of Hannibal if they weren't with company, or Will wasn't so predictably angry-- acutely so, really. He wondered for a moment if Will would start counting down like scolding parent, having learnt it from his days of being a father. That idea held mixed feelings, to say the least.

He was snapped from his thoughts when the door handle turned and opened, and an impeccably wrathful Will Graham greeted him. As exquisite as expected- eyes tired and fiery, expression unreadably, hands balling into fists now and again. His posture wasn't a stance ready for a fight, but it was there in his eyes, somewhere. To anyone else, he just looked annoyed.

His sworded glare did little to quell Hannibal's amusement at the entire evening, his person suit slipping and fraying at the edges as it would do if he were actually drunk. Will's harsh gaze flitted from his face to the briefcase, obvious in his attempts to decipher. Hannibal chose to stay silent. _Speak when spoken to,_ and all that- curious on how it would play out without his independent input. He'd broken the pieces, now he wanted to watch them be put back into place. A sort of challenge, if you will, for the hell of it.

Fixing him with a look before visibly deflating, Will sighed yet again, and moved over without making eye contact to fish in Hannibal's various pockets for the car keys, refocusing all his attention on the other library guy: "Has any damage been done? Did he say anything weird? He gets a little-- _twitchy_ when he's like this." He made a vague gesture to imply aggression, and the man crossed his arms over his chest. _Oh fuck_.

"No, he ignored any questions, refused to leave. And pushed me up against the wall." The man stated, nonchalant, seemingly having foregone blame and now willing to let the whole thing slide in exchange for a good night's rest. Hannibal only gazed at him with a sly expression and a stupid smile, which, of course, Will caught in his peripherals. He inwardly rolled his eyes, clenching his jaw, "I'm fine, I won't say anything-- We were gonna call the cops but we heard him call to you, and-" The man rubbed an eye and sighed passively, waving a hand, "Just get him out of here."

"I intend to." That sounded casual, kind even. But he looked at Hannibal then with that same accusatory, albeit scary, look, telling him to behave _or else_. Not much unsettled Hannibal Lecter, but a furious Will was something to behold. And to avoid: "Are you able to walk or do I need to drag you out?" He asked passively, like you would a stranger, shoving the car keys into his pocket.

Hannibal dared to smirk fractionally, and stood up from where he was leaning against one of the two stalls, hair falling in his face: "I assure you that I am _very_ capable of _plenty_ of physical activities." Hannibal murmured, loud enough to hear, feeling the air crack with the static between them.

If he said too much, Will would snap, which didn't happen all that often. When it did, it resulted in similar incidences to the clifftop that night, sometimes directed at Hannibal: nothing could stand in Will's way or in his wake.

He wouldn't let it happen with other witnesses though. It was lucky the girl behind Will managed to suppress a laugh. For all their sakes.

Instead of waiting until Will threw him from the room, or, better yet, punched him with the keys between his fingers, Hannibal scooped up his briefcase, testing the waters by stumbling a bit. _Ah, that unyielding empathy_ , he thought as he felt Will grab his upper arm to kind of aid him in walking safely, but mostly to keep him reigned in. That kindness shouldn't be mistaken for calmness however; despite being capable of niceties even if under strain, Will was far- _far!_ \- from letting go that easily.

Getting out of the place wasn't too much trouble, the workers staying put to tidy up whatever mess Hannibal had left them with. Will only hoped it didn't involve flesh and blood. If it did there would probably be a lot more screams. _Every cloud has a silver lining, I guess._ When they got to the stairs, out of sight, the young girl called out to them to see if they needed any help, and before Will could speak, Hannibal pulled him close and spoke through his teeth directly next to his ear: "Jei jie padės, juos nužudysiu." _If they help, I will kill them._

" _No_." Will called back, a bit too aggressively, then sighed and wrestled off Hannibal's suspiciously coordinated hold on him, "It's fine, thanks!" Will narrowed his eyes at him, Hannibal smiling almost imperceptibly.

"Okay! Have a good night!" She sounded insincere and no one could blame her. Will kept glowering.

Just then, Hannibal descended the stairs with as much grace as a fucking cat and Will almost fell down them in surprise. He chased after him and grabbed him by the arm again and turned him around, deciding not to push him into the nearest bookshelf: "What the _fuck?"_

"Yes, Will?" _Good God,_ he had that dumb look on his face that oozed smugness. Will could feel his anger bubbling up again, itching in his clenched fists.

"You're not drunk." He seethed, whispering, and Hannibal blinked in mock innocence, regarding him blankly, "What the _fuck_ is your game?"

"My game?"

"Why were you in a fucking library pretending to be pissed all day?"

Hannibal tilted his head only a fraction: "Why do you think I was here? Smart answers only, please." Will did nothing but stare at him for a moment, flames licking the backs of his eyeballs, but forced out a sigh and set his jaw, visibly deflating. He'd had enough- he was clearly not drunk _enough_ for this shit.

"I don't want to know." He grumbled, dismissive, fetching the keys from his pocket as he moved past Hannibal. Hannibal stayed put, watching him leave.

"Are you sure?" Hannibal asked after him, predicting that he'd turn back, scorned, before he even did it. A key was pointed at him, threatening.

"I should fucking leave you here." Will growled, a bit too loud, and he heard footsteps coming down the stairs, quickly storming back towards Hannibal, grabbing his arm tight enough to bruise, and practically shoving him from the building before another word could be said. 

The drive home was starkly silent, spare the rain that splattered the windows and caught in the headlights, appearing like flurries of alighted arrows from the dark. When Hannibal did hazard a look over at Will, he didn't look angry: he wasn't scowling, no hunch in his posture, not gripping the wheel too tight. Other than that, Hannibal was uncharacteristically quiet, musing over the day's ideas and imaginings, and wondering when he could slip away again to--

"You're going to kill them, aren't you?" Will asked, conversationally. The same manner as _how are you?_ Hannibal chose to level with him.

"Some of the employee, yes."

"Why?"

Hannibal glanced out to watch the shadowy gravel and grass rushing by as the headlights illuminated it: "You know why." Will didn't sigh. Bright, reflective eyes of deer, most likely, were fleeting pinpricks of yellow in the inky blackness of the night. If Will hadn't have slowed down, he might've run into one of them.

"What are you going to do with them?"

"It's a surprise." Will very briefly looked at him for the first time on the drive, and he appeared equally as bored as he did interested.

"For me?"

"Will you be participating?"

"No." It would be a lie to say Hannibal wasn't a bit disheartened by that response. Will sounded vaguely disappointed, but mostly tired: "It's your _big secret_ \- I'm not getting involved. I don't care. Tell me from the beginning if you want me to _join in_." He was being curt, closed off, "I was worried sick _all fucking day."_ He breathed a laugh at himself, and Hannibal went to say something, to move his hand over, but he cut him off on purpose, "You can touch me again when your little impulsive escapade is over and done with." He shot him a look to provide sincerity. Hannibal digressed, and placated. Unfortunately for him, the arguments didn't cease when they arrived home, if anything, they got worse. A few slammed doors and suitably anxious dogs later, Will allowed Cephy to join him to bed, much to Hannibal's disgust, and locked Hannibal out of their shared bedroom.

Hannibal Lecter never thought that he'd be banish to sleep on a couch amongst a pack of dogs and a stormy night, or that he would've let it happen.

He was wrong.


End file.
